“Happy Friday!”
I can’t stand those two words, especially when strung together and intoned in a really annoying sing songy voice. Obviously, the person who relishes this phrase doesn’t claim any dependents on their tax returns.
For the rest of us, weekends are a whirlwind of activity that takes place at a feverish pace and requires more car laps around Glynn County than a week’s worth of races at the Daytona 500. There are birthday parties, soccer practices, riding lessons, basketball games, cheerleading tryouts, and piano recitals. And that’s just scratching the surface.
Not only does your weekend revolve around the little people with runny noses and untied shoelaces that you chose to bring into this world (possibly after a few too many margaritas), but it also involves a few others that you didn’t.
Which brings me to the two other words that when put together make me want to go back to bed and call my mommy: “sleep” and “over.” Here’s what occurs during a typical weekend sleepover at the Packard house:
5:00 PM- Four girls arrive with enough luggage for a two week European tour, not to mention enough cell phones, iPads, iPods, and other electronic gaming devices to power through a nuclear winter.
5:05 PM- Two iPods and one cell phone are now missing. One of the cats is AWOL and the dog has pink curlers in his hair and moustache drawn in with my black Laura Mercier coal eyeliner pencil.
5:15 PM- I try to sit down but all of the cushions and accent pillows and bed sheets in the entire house are stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa in the sunroom. There’s a note attached that reads: “Whoever knocks down this fort will either die a slow and painful death or have to sleep on the floor.” I back away carefully.
5:36 PM- Girls have melted all the chocolate in the house to make mud masks and two of them have glued their eyes shut with purple glitter nail polish from Claire’s. Good news: the cat has shown up. Bad news: she won’t stop shaking and refuses to eat.
5:57 PM- In survival mode, I decide to make a cocktail with some watered down Fanta orange soda and a rim of crushed Nerds found all over the kitchen counter top.
5:59 PM- I take my cocktail outside to the driveway to check on the girls, where one of them points out, with pride, a sidewalk chalk portrait of me that could only be described as a cross between Barbara Bush and Smurfette. I ponder throwing my drink on it to make it go away, but it comes down to sanity vs. vanity. For me, sanity wins every time. I down the rest of my drink and pray for rain.
6:33 PM- The pizza delivery guy shows up. Unfortunately, the girls descend on him like a band of over-sugared, over-accessorized princess-look-alikes at Disney who finally spotted Minnie after standing in line for half a day in extreme heat. He throws the pizza at the porch and makes a hasty retreat, no doubt to call for a restraining order and to block our number from their phone database worldwide, including Canada.
7:03PM- After lugging down four extra-large Hefties to the trash and unclogging the sink, it’s time to pick out a movie.
8:00 PM- Following three total melt downs, two fits of hiccups, and a call for mutiny, we still haven’t picked out a movie. I double check the dead bolts and set the alarm just in case someone really does try and walk home.
8:15 PM- After some more careful, but healthy debate, three gigantic tubs of popcorn, and a few iTunes gift cards left over from Christmas for the obstructionists, we finally come to a decision and press play.
10:15 PM- Finally. I was able to read my book in peace. I did have to make a run to the garage for more toilet paper, fix an overflowing toilet, remove a splinter, clean up an exploding Coke, find a stuffed bunny and a bear, recharge a cell phone then turn it off, wriggle two blankets from the leaning tower of Pisa without it falling down, but I did manage to read six pages. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
10:30 PM- Time for bed. I can still hear them like little rats scurrying back and forth across the hardwoods upstairs, but I am just too tired to care anymore. The alarm is on, the smoke detectors are hardwired to the fire station, and if something goes off, the good news is they will all have reliable and fast transportation back to where they came from.
8:00 AM- The kids are already up. Actually, they have been since 6:00 AM after admitting they went to bed at 1:00 AM. I run around the kitchen taking down breakfast requests like a short order cook, only to end up with maple syrup in my hair, burnt toast, and two stacks of uneaten pancakes.
9:01 AM- We have packed up what we can find, which isn’t much, and six girls stare at me with red rimmed eyes like a horde of college freshmen who just pulled an all-nighter for finals while inhaling twelve pots of coffee under fluorescent lighting. The only thing left for me to do is inhale twelve cups of coffee and stare at the driveway, hoping their parents will show up soon.
My friend, Alicia, asked me what the appropriate age is for her 5 year-old to have a sleep over. My answer is always the same. “When she is thirty,” I tell her, “and she has to have a ring on her finger and have already negotiated the best side of the garage to park her car in.”
Actually, it really is worth it in the end. I get to watch my girls cultivate friendships, laugh till their sides split, and figure out what it means for someone to have your back and vice versa.
In the words of the late Erma Bombeck, the world’s wisest woman: “friends are –‘annuals’ that need nurturing to bear blossoms. Family is a ‘perennial’ that comes up year after year, enduring droughts of absence and neglect. There’s a place in the garden for both of them.”
So, bring ‘em on…over, that is. I’ll always have Monday.
For the rest of us, weekends are a whirlwind of activity that takes place at a feverish pace and requires more car laps around Glynn County than a week’s worth of races at the Daytona 500. There are birthday parties, soccer practices, riding lessons, basketball games, cheerleading tryouts, and piano recitals. And that’s just scratching the surface.
Not only does your weekend revolve around the little people with runny noses and untied shoelaces that you chose to bring into this world (possibly after a few too many margaritas), but it also involves a few others that you didn’t.
Which brings me to the two other words that when put together make me want to go back to bed and call my mommy: “sleep” and “over.” Here’s what occurs during a typical weekend sleepover at the Packard house:
5:00 PM- Four girls arrive with enough luggage for a two week European tour, not to mention enough cell phones, iPads, iPods, and other electronic gaming devices to power through a nuclear winter.
5:05 PM- Two iPods and one cell phone are now missing. One of the cats is AWOL and the dog has pink curlers in his hair and moustache drawn in with my black Laura Mercier coal eyeliner pencil.
5:15 PM- I try to sit down but all of the cushions and accent pillows and bed sheets in the entire house are stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa in the sunroom. There’s a note attached that reads: “Whoever knocks down this fort will either die a slow and painful death or have to sleep on the floor.” I back away carefully.
5:36 PM- Girls have melted all the chocolate in the house to make mud masks and two of them have glued their eyes shut with purple glitter nail polish from Claire’s. Good news: the cat has shown up. Bad news: she won’t stop shaking and refuses to eat.
5:57 PM- In survival mode, I decide to make a cocktail with some watered down Fanta orange soda and a rim of crushed Nerds found all over the kitchen counter top.
5:59 PM- I take my cocktail outside to the driveway to check on the girls, where one of them points out, with pride, a sidewalk chalk portrait of me that could only be described as a cross between Barbara Bush and Smurfette. I ponder throwing my drink on it to make it go away, but it comes down to sanity vs. vanity. For me, sanity wins every time. I down the rest of my drink and pray for rain.
6:33 PM- The pizza delivery guy shows up. Unfortunately, the girls descend on him like a band of over-sugared, over-accessorized princess-look-alikes at Disney who finally spotted Minnie after standing in line for half a day in extreme heat. He throws the pizza at the porch and makes a hasty retreat, no doubt to call for a restraining order and to block our number from their phone database worldwide, including Canada.
7:03PM- After lugging down four extra-large Hefties to the trash and unclogging the sink, it’s time to pick out a movie.
8:00 PM- Following three total melt downs, two fits of hiccups, and a call for mutiny, we still haven’t picked out a movie. I double check the dead bolts and set the alarm just in case someone really does try and walk home.
8:15 PM- After some more careful, but healthy debate, three gigantic tubs of popcorn, and a few iTunes gift cards left over from Christmas for the obstructionists, we finally come to a decision and press play.
10:15 PM- Finally. I was able to read my book in peace. I did have to make a run to the garage for more toilet paper, fix an overflowing toilet, remove a splinter, clean up an exploding Coke, find a stuffed bunny and a bear, recharge a cell phone then turn it off, wriggle two blankets from the leaning tower of Pisa without it falling down, but I did manage to read six pages. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
10:30 PM- Time for bed. I can still hear them like little rats scurrying back and forth across the hardwoods upstairs, but I am just too tired to care anymore. The alarm is on, the smoke detectors are hardwired to the fire station, and if something goes off, the good news is they will all have reliable and fast transportation back to where they came from.
8:00 AM- The kids are already up. Actually, they have been since 6:00 AM after admitting they went to bed at 1:00 AM. I run around the kitchen taking down breakfast requests like a short order cook, only to end up with maple syrup in my hair, burnt toast, and two stacks of uneaten pancakes.
9:01 AM- We have packed up what we can find, which isn’t much, and six girls stare at me with red rimmed eyes like a horde of college freshmen who just pulled an all-nighter for finals while inhaling twelve pots of coffee under fluorescent lighting. The only thing left for me to do is inhale twelve cups of coffee and stare at the driveway, hoping their parents will show up soon.
My friend, Alicia, asked me what the appropriate age is for her 5 year-old to have a sleep over. My answer is always the same. “When she is thirty,” I tell her, “and she has to have a ring on her finger and have already negotiated the best side of the garage to park her car in.”
Actually, it really is worth it in the end. I get to watch my girls cultivate friendships, laugh till their sides split, and figure out what it means for someone to have your back and vice versa.
In the words of the late Erma Bombeck, the world’s wisest woman: “friends are –‘annuals’ that need nurturing to bear blossoms. Family is a ‘perennial’ that comes up year after year, enduring droughts of absence and neglect. There’s a place in the garden for both of them.”
So, bring ‘em on…over, that is. I’ll always have Monday.
0 comments:
Post a Comment